


The Fields

by HaroldSaxon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, in remembrance of the end of WWI at the 11th of Nov. 1918
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaroldSaxon/pseuds/HaroldSaxon
Summary: A short, 2 chapter Petyr x Sansa au fanfic set between 1914-1918.The blissfull married life of a young British house wife is shattered when she is forced to be confronted with the horrors of the Great War.





	The Fields

**Author's Note:**

> In remembrance of all those who have fallen in The Great War, and all the wars that followed thereafter.  
> With their deaths, they have shaped our previous century and our present.
> 
> We never truly learn, but sometimes we remember.

 

**Suggested music:**

[Un bel di vedremo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-r2vu4t9-g)

[Valiant hearts, Little Trinketry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5cg2pNpXgiM)

 

1.

”God! I cannot believe you did this! How can you be so stupid!” Sansa exclaimed. She was absolutely furious.

Petyr sat across the dining table with a most apologetic grin on his face. A violin was softly playing in the background, and Geraldine Farrar was singing her heart out as madame Butterfly, her voice brought to life by the thin gramophone needle running along the grooves of the record. It was Sansa’s favorite piece.   

 _Bastard!_ She thought. He knew that she was going to react like this. He put it on in advance to calm her. Well, absolutely not a chance that it was going to work now. Puccini’s beautiful aria  about longing and heartache could easily move Sansa to tears when she was in a particular sentimental mood, but all she could feel right now was anger and betrayal.

“They made you chief army planning officer.” She reminded him, her face contorted into a fierce scowl. “It’s a respectful post, a nice and safe desk job. Not unimportant with the war going on! They pay you well enough for us to live comfortably. How did you ever get it into your head to steal army stock and sell it to our enemies?!”

  _And you got caught as well?_ That was perhaps the most infuriating part. She knew him for almost a decade. She had been married to him for more than 6 years. She knew that Petyr wasn’t exactly a man of high morals, like her father. Petyr was opportunistic and he was clever. He always knew how to bend the rules in his favor and got away with more than any other man ever could. His obvious flaws in character had not bothered her before, she loved him just the same. Her husband was not a good man in the strictest sense, but he was devoted to her. They loved each other dearly, and that was all that mattered. _But then, just when our life together is going so well, he becomes overconfident and does something so completely and obviously retarded in such a dangerous time like this!_

“Technically, at the time of transaction, the Germans weren’t yet our enemies… Also, it was just standard gear, pots and hipflasks, things like that, not shells or guns.” Petyr saw the look on her face and decided not to go in on it any further. He was also not keen to admit to her that he had been doing this for years. Why wouldn't he? He knew exactly who to bribe to keep things safe. He never ran into any troubles before, and he had used his ill-gotten gains to make her happy and to build a comfortable life for them both. Only now, with war raging on the continent and this stupid world turned completely upside down, has it become a such a problem.

“How can you be so incredible selfish!” Sansa raged on. “You know, my father was right about you! Do you have even a shred of honor in you?! Is there than nothing but greed?!” She knew her words would hurt him, but she was too mad to care.

“You didn’t complain so much when I used the money to buy us this lovely house, did you?” Petyr snapped back, regretting it instantly.

She was seething.

They were ruined. Now that they had found out, Petyr was bound to be punished for this. They would sack him. He could forget to ever get another job in the army again. His career as a promising senior officer was over. They would have to sell the house and -

“They want to send me to jail.” Petyr murmured.

Despite her anger, her heart skipped a beat. “No…they…For how long?”

“They didn’t say. Only that it has to be assessed when I am summoned by court martial and that it was serious.” Petyr said, and yet he continued to smirk.

Not his usual confident, - _I know something you don’t_ \- smirk. Not the smug -I _am going to fuck you behind your back and you won’t see it coming_ \- smirk that he reserved for his rivals and all of his superiors, and sometimes even her father. It was the one that only she ever got to see, the - _Something went horribly shit side up and it’s all my fault and I am very very sorry but I don’t know how to tell you_ \- smirk. She hated it when he did that one.

“This case-“ He continued. “My superiors informed me that it could be considered treason. It may be dealt with as such…” 

Sansa sank back in her chair. This was even worse than she thought. Treason. She didn’t know much about army law, but she knew that it would mean the death sentence. Her heart sank. Suddenly she had trouble breathing.  

“But there is a solution…the whole court business could be avoided. They offered me a way out...” 

She gazed back at him, eyes still and sick with worry.  

 

2\.  

The offer was that he would volunteer to join the allied troops to fight at the Western front. He would immediately be down graded from captain to lieutenant and receive reduced pay accordingly. Serve his country loyally in the front lines of northern Belgium till the war is over, and his crimes shall be swept neatly under the carpet. Petyr could get back his well-paid cosy desk job once he returned, and their blessed middleclass married life could resume like nothing has happened.. 

It was a fair bargain. According to almost everyone, the war was going to be over in a few months anyway. The Huns stood no chance against the might of the allies, the combined forces of the British empire, France, and Russia. Victory is bound to be certain and swift. Nevertheless, Sansa stayed angry, unable to forgive him for this stupid transgression that had suddenly cost them so much. She still cooked his dinner and washed his clothes. She also did all the chores that normally their maid would do, but now they could no longer afford. Mealtimes became tense affaires. Anything that should have been said before Petyr left for the front was left unsaid. Every attempt for affection initiated by him that should perhaps, if she was smarter, could have been cherished for the long lonely months ahead, died with her stubborn silence. Their marrital bed, once the stage of heated passions, became a cold no-man's land, with each of them borrowed deep down underneath their blankets, like soldiers of opposite sites in their trenches, not wanting to reach out to eachother in fear of getting hurt. 

The dreaded day finally came when Petyr was called to leave.

It was a bright October morning, cloudless, the yellow autumn canopy of the trees shimmering like gems. The low sun in the sky shone golden. The platform where the train was waiting was full of soldiers who were saying their goodbyes to their families and sweethearts.

 _They are all still so very young._ Sansa thought. Most of them were no more than boys in ill-fitted grown man’s uniforms, hauling along backpacks that seemed too much of a burden for them carry. She looked at Petyr. He appeared immaculate as always, and was wearing his favorite brown trenchcoat, the collar folded up the way he preferred, the neatly packed suitcase already in his hand.  

In the golden morning glow, the rim of his officer’s hat threw sharp shadows over his clean shaven face.  

 _This is completely mad._ She thought in a rare moment of clarity. _Why do they have to go over there and fight? Risk their lives in a war that was decided on by kings and kaisers with their ridiculous dreams of glory, and play with precious lives like boys with tin toys? Why does my Petyr has_ _to go?_

 _How will I ever survive without him?_    

Her eyes were moist. She fought her tears. She reminded herself that she was still resenting him for getting them to this horrible point. _It’s all his fault!_ With his work based in london, he could have stayed far away from the actual fighting. He could have done his duty and stayed with her, where he would have been safe. But he blew it.

“For God’s sake Sansa.” Petyr finally said, breaking days of silence between them. “Can you please, _please_ stop being like this?” He begged, thinking that there was no more time. “I won’t come back before my first leave in December. I won’t see your face or hear your voice again for at least 5 months. Do you have any idea how long that is? 5 long months, without you?”

Sansa still said nothing. She did not want to feel anything. She wanted to stay angry with him. Anger was good. It would make their forced separation much more bearable. Her eyes were tearing up. Petyr took her in his arms, treating her with a gentleness and care that reminded her of their very first night together. She had been a virgin, and Petyr, ever the gentleman and always considerate of her every need, had handled her like she was made out of fragile glass.

“Promise me that you won’t stay angry with me forever.” Petyr caressed her cheek, his grey-green eyes taking in everything, memorizing the way she looked. How strong, and beautiful and yet so preciously fragile. He regretted that he had not done this often enough when he still had the chance.

“I know you will be brave. Wait for me. I love you -“ He reminded her, his words a soft whisper in her ear. His fingers brushed away a lock of her auburn hair. “- and love is how you are going to survive.” His eyes were full of determination, and he kissed her on her forehead, his nose touching hers. He did not kiss her on the lips. Perhaps he was afraid that she would turn it down and ruin this last moment they had together, but he held her tight enough for her to feel his beating heart, right through his uniform and coat. 

Eventually, he had to let her go. Moments later, he was gone.

 

 3. 

She found herself swept away by waves of dangerous melancholy. Many hours of her days were now spent doing nothing but staring at black and white photographs. When they were first married, Petyr had surprised her with a beautiful expensive German camera on Christmas day. She quickly learned to use his gift with great enthusiasm, becoming a keen amateur, and over the years she had created an impressive collection. In addition to the portrait pictures and their wedding photos taken by professionals, she also had rare snap shots of their married everyday life. She and Petyr spending a glorious summer day in the park, sitting in the grass under a tree in the shade. Petyr reading a book to her while she stared at the clouds. Petyr goofing around with her sister Arya in her mother’s garden a day in early spring. Petyr, holding up some ghastly slimy sea creature that he had picked out of the rockpools to freak her out. Petyr, sleeping on the couch in front of the wood fire, his arms tucked under his favorite checker-blanket to keep warm, his officer’s hat slowly sliding over his brows.

Petyr, planting rose bushes for her in the garden one long forgotten peaceful Sunday morning.    

She always ended up a complete mess, eyes red of crying, her head filled with thoughts so dark that it frightened her out of her sleep at night. _Petyr is wrong._ She thought. _Love is not how I am going to survive._

She attempted to spend her days differently. She went out more, visited social affairs with her mother, indulged in gossip, and went shopping, even despite that most of them were now emptier than that she had ever seen, and the sight of the rows and rows of bare shelves depressed her. She also offered to do volunteer work for the victims in war torn Belgium and France. Soon, she busied herself all day with knitting socks for baby orphans, and making jam for poor widow farmers in Flanders. She didn’t want to do anything for the soldiers though. That would remind her too much of Petyr. She also made sure to stay away from the horrific tales that started to trickle in from the front.

People around her were still optimistic though. It will all be over by Christmas, they said. Government posters were everywhere, boosting public moral. They reminded her that every British housewife who stayed behind while her husband and sons fought in the war should be proud of their contributions. Every news round in the cinema and every newspaper headline proclaimed that the Huns were a menace. They were the scorge of Europe, destroying towns and villages, raping Belgium nuns, killing women and bajonetting babies and murdering children for sports. They were the monsters and our brave men the heroes, who were sent by our government on a noble cause to stop them. Petyr wasn’t even brave. He was certainly not a hero, but still he was over there fighting, doing his duty, no matter the real reason behind it. Sansa should be proud of him, and like the brave women on the posters, keep a stiff upper lip, stay calm, and carry on with everyday life.  

She was British after all.

The war was going to end soon. It was going to save Petyr’s career and mend their marriage.  

She received letters from him every Friday. She never read them, did not even open them, always put them away in the same box in which she kept the pictures. _Her secret box of tears_ she called it in her head. She also never wrote back. Sititng down and picking up a pen to put down her thoughts, her real thoughts, not the printed slogans on the government posters, terrified her.

Time passed. People were still optimistic, but were perhaps, also a little bit more realistic now? Sure there were bound to be setbacks, a limited number of casualties, but the war was _sure_ to be over by next year Easter. Our men are doing great. Everything is going according to plan. The Germans are suffering horrible losses and the allies are winning - _always winning_. Or so they were told by the news and by the ever ubiquitous posters.

Yet there were whispers. The most terrifying stories were going around. Someone in her _knit-for-mercy_ club had a son who would no longer return home for Christmas. She overheard another unfortunate lady, telling her friend about her husband while tears streamed over her cheeks and dripped down into her bubbling pot of sugary raspberries. He was stationed in Somme when he was severely injured, hit by a shell while he was taking a break to smoke the tobacco she had sent to him, and finally returned home with both his legs amputated. The poor woman blamed herself. He was in such a poor state. If she only had sent him chocolate instead...

Petyr sent her a telegram. He won’t be allowed to go on leave this Christmas. He won’t be coming home. At least he was alive, unlike that other poor woman’s son. Sansa spent the holidays with her family. No turkey but a roast chicken on Christmas Day, slightly smaller servings of side dishes, and the Christmas pudding had to be enjoyed without setting it alight first, for the shops had run out of Brandy. She was lucky that her oldest brothers were all studying abroad in the US and stayed well away from the war. Her father had seen to that. There was also little talk about it at the Christmas dinner table. They didn’t want to remind her of Petyr, and yet she thought of him all the time.   

She returned to a cold and lonely house two days after new year. She took out her secret box filled with his words and memories of better times, when Petyr was still here and the world was reasonably normal. She took it in her arms and held onto it while she cried herself to sleep.    

The war dragged on and on. Months went silently over into another full year of fears and doubts. Suddenly, she had not seen Petyr since the beginning of all this. The last time they were together, she had said nothing to him. Not even a final goodbye. How much she regretted it now.      

By the time autumn arrived again in 1915, Petyr's letters were no longer getting to her every week, but arrived only once a month. After that they became even more sporadic, and then they suddenly stopped coming altogether.

Probably something to do with the increasing difficulties they have to get the post out from the war zone. She was told by a helpful man at the post office. It’s hell over there. Communication, transport, everything was shite, rails and roads and telegram lines all shot and blown to bits. Not to worry, she was not the only one affected. Many wives who came to complain about the lack of letters, sometimes did not receive anything from their spouses for months.  

 _Yes._ She thought. _\- and most of those wives probably ended up as widows._

 _Maybe Petyr stopped writing, because I never wrote him back._ She thought hopefully. _Maybe he just gave up because he thought I was still angry with him._  

Two weeks later, she received a telegram that Petyr was missing in action. His monthly pay would now be replaced by payment from the national widows fund till further notice. The army officer who signed the letter gave her his sincere condolences. The tune of the letter was cold and formal, efficiently standardized, every word on the page dictated by the government public relation office, typed over and over on countless of typewriters in some gray building in the capital.

 _His condolences._ Sansa’s hands holding on to the piece of paper could not stop trembling. Petyr was officially only missing, but was considered as good as dead.

Going mad of grief, she wondered if she should have been bottling up jam for for herself all this time instead of sending it out to those poor Belgium women. She could have filled up her entire cellar by now. She could have been drowning in that stuff.

_My husband just died._

_My sincere condolences misses Bealish, please receive this pot of excellent raspberry jam to help you with your tremendous loss._

She laughed hysterically, for it was ridiculous. This entire war was ridiculous. Monstrous.

Grotesque.

 

4.

Petyr had left her his old service revolver.

“For protection.” He had told her the night before, when she still pretended that she didn’t care that he was going to be shipped off to Belgium, to a terrible war that devoured men. How very petty and truly foolish had she been.

“I have hidden it in the bible on your dressing table." A brief pause. "I need to be frank with you. I don’t know how this is going to turn out..." He had looked at her then, his worries so well written on his face that it scared her. The Petyr she knew never lost his calm, or showed his fears, not to anyone, especially not her. He came over and sat down on the bed next to her. "I don't know when I will be allowed to come back home to you." His hand reached out for hers, searching for comfort, but she pulled away.

He gave up.

"Sansa." He finally said, looking her in the eyes and begging her to keep it in mind. "If things ever turn ugly, and I am not here...You know how to use it. It’s there for you.”

It was still there where he had left it, lying in a secret compartment cut-out in the pages. She took it, let her fingers slowly run over the cold smooth surface, touching the same metal that Petyr had once held in his own hands. There was also a round of munition. She put both in her purse and quietly left the house.  

She took the bus into the city. At the corner of Oxford street, there was a recruitment office for the Red Cross setup ever since the start of this nightmare. Things were now going so badly that even the propaganda machine was not able to hide anything from the normal men and women in the streets. The kaiser was sending zeppelins over the channel. Laden with bombs, they rained their deadly cargos over the east coast ports, killing hundreds of civilians and bringing the war right to their doorsteps. Everyone knew the battle in the western front had come to a full stalemate, traditional fighting in the open fields with fast results and quick progress replaced by a new stagnant sort of trench war, in which equally matched parties dug themselves into the earth and waited for the other to go over the top. A wasteful and futile strategy, it killed and injured men by their thousands without ever gaining even an inch more of land, yet both sides stubbornly kept on fighting.

She walked pass a Red Cross recruitment poster. More medical staff was urgently needed, doctors and nurses, the latter either trained or untrained, to go to the front to help to deal with the ever increasing number of casualties. With Petyr’s gun safely tucked away, Sansa went inside to register. This time, she was not going to just waste her time away, knitting useless garments and boiling sugary sirops. She did not want to stick her head in the sand any longer, not while the war turned the earth where her people fought red with their precious blood.

Petyr was not dead. He was only missing in action. Sansa had decided to go to the front. She was going to find Petyr and bring him back home.                     

 

_TBC_

**Notes:** Next and final part should be posted on the 11th of November, 2018, or follow me on [**_tumblr_**](https://florineandthebluebird.tumblr.com/post/179139849839/coming-up-26th-of-october-to-mark-the-centenary#notes).

 


End file.
